


Brain Vomit

by hasaki



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:24:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8279378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hasaki/pseuds/hasaki
Summary: A place to drop the daily musings of a twenty-something college student with probably a little too much stress and much too little caffeine.





	1. There's something almost powerful about it

“So you have a crush, but don’t plan on doing anything about it?”

It’s hard to explain.  It’s not due to the timid nature engraved in your bones – not entirely.  It boils down to the feeling of power – that feeling of curling up under the covers and imagining their face.  It’s easy to imagine the warm taste of their lips, the easy smile that paints them, the silky strands of their hair, and your fingers running through them.  It’s almost powerful, to have them in your thoughts while they sleep soundly – none the wiser. 

It’s almost sardonic, in a way, how easily the heart sets on someone.  It doesn’t even take deep conversations, or life-changing events, but a small enough smile that screams _they're the one_. That’s not possible – they aren't the one.  You know that, you're not stupid.  But when they smile, however friendly it may be, when they laugh, so loud and boisterous at the joke you make, you can’t stop the flutter.  The little feeling that reels and cries out, but _maybe_. 

So you dream, but there’s a reason it’s called a crush. 

There’s also a reason we all indulge in them anyway. 


	2. Drunk Words are Sober Thoughts…but what about the Angry Ones?

The words lick your wounds, they itch like a constant fire nipping at your heels.  The words leave their lips and they spit in your face, you see the rage coiling under their eyes – all directed at you.  You tell them, _it’s not my fault,_ but the words die on your tongue. 

Their fury makes quite the silencer. 

It almost _makes_ it your fault.  The longer they scream the easier it becomes to believe.  Words become sticks and stones that break your bones until they pierce your heart and all the blood spills out but it comes out in tears.  Fresh on your cheeks when they slam the door, curling into the palm you use to quiet the sobs because _god_ you aren’t weak like this. 

It’s okay to cry, they say, but it feels pathetic all the same. 


End file.
